Chapter 7: The Lawyer's Office
Her name was Diane Marsh, and Daniel had found her through a colleague — a woman who specialized in estate disputes and financial fraud.
Her office was above a dry cleaner's on the main street of town.
She met us at eight o'clock that evening without complaint, in reading glasses and a blazer over a T-shirt, and she spread Richard's documents across her conference table like she was laying out a hand of cards.
She read without speaking for fifteen minutes.
We sat and waited.
When she finally looked up, she said: "Tell me about the signature."
Daniel explained.
She listened, made a note, and turned back to the mortgage document.
"Forging a witness signature on a secured loan instrument is fraud," she said.
"Depending on how the lender processed it, there may also be bank fraud involved.
This isn't a civil matter.
This is potentially criminal."
"He's de@d," Thomas said.
"Yes," Diane said.
"Which complicates the criminal question but doesn't eliminate the civil one.
The loan itself may be voidable if it was executed fraudulently.
That's a conversation for a litigator and the lender." She set the mortgage document down.
"What's your priority, Mrs.
Whitmore?
What do you actually want?"
I had been thinking about that since the storage unit.
"I want the debt against my house removed," I said.
"I want to understand what money went where.
And I want to know if there's anything I'm legally required to do about the forged signature."
"You're not required to report it," she said.
"But if you choose to, it opens a formal investigation into the loan.
That could work in your favor — it gives you grounds to contest the mortgage.
It could also take time." She looked at me over her glasses.
"And it will make things uncomfortable for the lender.
Mercer Holdings will not enjoy having a fraudulent document in their files."
"Good," I said.
She almost smiled.
"There's one more thing," I said.
I slid the draft will across the table.
"He was planning to change his will.
He never executed it.
But I want to understand — is there any way Patrice Calloway could make a claim against the estate?
Common-law rights?
Anything?"
Diane studied the draft will.
"How long was the relationship?"
"Eleven years," I said.
The words still felt strange in my mouth.
"Did they cohabitate?"
"She lived in the house he bought.
He visited every third weekend."
"That's unlikely to meet the threshold for common-law status in this state," Diane said.
"She wasn't a dependent.
She wasn't named in the executed will.
The secret insurance policy — " she tapped that folder — "is a separate matter.
That payout will go to her regardless, because it's a beneficiary designation, not a will provision.
You can't contest that."
"How much?" I asked.
She checked the document.
"Eighty thousand."
I absorbed that.
"She gets eighty thousand dollars," I said.
"And a house he bought with my house."
"The house on Sycamore Lane," Diane said carefully, "was purchased with loan proceeds secured against your marital property.
If the loan is voided due to fraud, the legal picture around that property becomes significantly more complicated." She paused.
"I'm not saying you could take her house.
I'm saying the situation is not as settled as it appears."
The room was quiet for a moment.
"She told me about the mortgage," I said.
"Patrice.
She's the one who warned me."
Diane looked at me.
"She warned you."
"She didn't know what she'd signed.
She said Richard told her it was a formality."
"That's consistent with how this kind of fraud works," Diane said.
She made another note.
"It may also be relevant to how this proceeds." She took off her glasses and set them on the table.
"Mrs.
Whitmore, I want to be direct with you.
You have a strong position.
The executed will protects you.
The forged signature gives you grounds to challenge the mortgage.
The draft will, while legally meaningless, documents intent that a court would find relevant." She looked at me steadily.
"But this will take months.
It will be difficult.
And at some point, you will have to decide how far you want to push it."
"I understand," I said.
"Do you want to proceed?"
I thought about Richard's truck.
The leather steering wheel.
The GPS saying *Home* and meaning somewhere else.
"Yes," I said.
"I want to proceed."
Diane nodded and reached for her notepad.
"Then let's start with Mercer Holdings," she said.
Her pen moved across the page.
Outside, the street was quiet.
The dry cleaner's sign buzzed softly below us.
Daniel put his hand over mine on the table.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
But when I got home that night and checked my phone, there was a voicemail from a number I didn't recognize.
A man's voice, flat and careful.
*Mrs.
Whitmore.
My name is Gerald Mercer.
I understand you've been asking questions about a loan account.
I think we should talk before this goes any further.
I'll be in touch.*
I played it twice.
Then I set the phone face-down on the counter.
May you like
He thought he could get ahead of this.
He was about to find out he was already behind.
